


i found the place to rest my head (never let me go)

by shafferthefirst



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Cuddling, F/M, Light Angst, Speculation, Wound Cleaning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-25 22:57:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9850517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shafferthefirst/pseuds/shafferthefirst
Summary: “We’ll find them."“Of course we will."Tomorrow, they will move heaven and hell and everything in between to save the day.But tonight, they’ll rest.-(Post 4x15-ish)





	

**Author's Note:**

> S/O to Laura for reading over this for me <3
> 
> This isn't at all what I think will happen tomorrow night, but I am always a slut for wound cleaning and these nerds being Gentle with each other so this happened instead. Enjoy?
> 
> Title is from Never Let Me Go by Florence + the Machine.

Jemma is honestly surprised she’s managed to nod off, twice now, against the window, with her mind as wired as it had been for the entirety of the evening. She blinks rapidly, glancing over at Fitz in the driver’s side. When she notices the darkness in the flesh under his eyes as he focuses on the road, she lifts her head and sits upright to stay awake with him.

 

“You can go back to sleep,” he says softly, tilting his face towards her, miraculously managing a small smile. “It’s okay.”

 

“I’m fine,” she yawns, shaking her head when it starts to lean back to the glass. “I’m fine.”

 

He tightens his grip on her fingers with his free hand, which he’s kept since the moment they narrowly made their escape from the base, and runs his thumb over her knuckles.

 

“It’s okay,” he says again. 

 

She dozes off not long after, lulled to sleep by the motion of the car, the length of the day, and the gentleness of his touch.

 

-

 

“Jem,” he runs a warm palm down her arm a little over an hour later. “Hey, we’re here.”

 

“‘Where’s here?” she rasps, rolling her shoulders. 

 

“Not far, but discrete enough to keep them off our tails.” Fitz nods to the little inn before them. “We’ll crash here for the night and make a plan of attack.”

 

Jemma follows along, tipping her forehead into his arm—half from exhaustion, half to hide the nasty cut and bruise at her temple that would raise suspicion in the sleepy lobby—as he makes their arrangements. If the innkeeper notices the dried blood at Fitz’s lip and the sagginess of their shoulders, she keeps it to herself, granting them a key and directions to their room. 

 

The carpet has stains, the door creaks, the two tiny twin beds look child-sized, the decorations are wonky and off-center, the bathroom sink is cracked with a flickering bulb above it, and those are only the start of an angry review on  _ Yelp _ , but it’s enough to rest their bones for a few hours. 

 

Fitz tosses his duffel on one of the beds and sits heavily on the other, eyes shutting briefly for what feels like the first time in hours, while Jemma rummages through drawer after drawer around the room.

 

“What are you looking for?”

 

“First aid kit,” she says without pausing her search. “It’s not a five-star resort, but surely they have—a _ ha.” _ She raises a small white box she’s plucked from the back of the bathroom cabinet. Fitz is struggling to push his shirt off his shoulders when she returns with the kit and a damp cloth, the soreness of his back after being thrown against a wall seemingly catching up to him. “Here, let me.”

 

She tugs it from his arms the rest of the way, wincing a little whenever he does. When it’s off, she folds the shirt neatly and sets it aside. 

 

“I hope this doesn’t bruise,” Jemma murmurs, and grazes her thumb against the corner of his mouth before wiping it clean with the cloth. “Anywhere else?”

 

“No,” he replies, “my back’s the worst of it.”

 

“Nothing a little ice and some rest won’t soothe.” She moves to stand and scoop some from the mini freezer, but he pulls her back. Off her confused expression, Fitz raises his gaze to her head, already turning purple beneath the cut in the dim light.

 

“Right,” she says.

 

He pries the cloth from her hand and gently cradles her jaw, gently blotting at the wound to wipe away the scarlet stain on her skin. Her fingers tangle into the hem of his undershirt, tightening when it stings. In turn, he pauses when she flinches. 

 

To her surprise, Fitz doesn’t stop there. He continues to the opposite temple, then her nose, eyelids, cheeks, every surface and crevice that his lips have kissed on several occasions. She realizes belatedly with a swoop to her stomach that he is no longer simply cleaning her cut, but also the sweat and makeup and worry lines caked onto her face in the past twelve hours. Her heart swells with the love it holds for him, and that he holds for her. 

 

When he’s done, he plants a small kiss to the harsh bruise, sweet and soft.

 

“Turn around,” he whispers, kissing her brow as well. Nodding, Jemma stands to pull off her sweater and jeans to make herself more comfortable, then faces the wall and rests her chin on her bare knees. She sighs in relief as he carefully eases her hair from its tight ponytail, tilting her head back when he cards his fingers through it.

 

They stay that way for a while, Fitz pulling loose each tangle and scratching at her scalp, Jemma practically purring from the sensation. When the exhaustion and his care start to make her sway on the spot, he rights her with his knees against her sides and quickly weaves her hair into a loose braid. 

 

She leans back far enough to land against his chest, eyes still closed as she leans in to kiss his cheek. “Thank you.”

 

He wraps his arms around her waistline, cheek against her ear and chin on her shoulder. 

 

They stay for a long time.

 

-

 

It’s no question on who’s sleeping where. They’re curled together under the thin covers of the left twin bed, heads tipped together on the same pillow, without a word.

 

“Tell me something only you would,” Jemma whispers, while they’re both somewhere between awake and asleep.

 

“Jem, we know I’m not an—” she cuts him off with her index finger to his lips.

 

“No, I know,” she smiles at him. “I just want to hear it.”

 

With that in mind, he pulls her closer and kisses her pulse point, then her jaw, then the spot of skin below her ear. She squirms, lightly kicking him in anticipation.

 

“I’ll tell you why I know  _ you’re _ not one of them,” Fitz says.

 

“Oh? And why’s that?”

 

He takes her face in his hands, stroking along her jawline with his thumbs. “There is no scientist in the world, mad or in their right mind, that could possibly,” he pauses, pressing their foreheads together, “replicate the subzero temperature of your feet.”

 

Jemma lets out a surprised laugh, burying her face in his neck to feel him chuckling too. He hugs her to his chest until she settles heavily against him, the quietness of the night washing over them again.

 

“We’ll find them,” he finally says.

 

“Of course we will,” she murmurs back. He pecks the top of her head a final time before sleep overcomes her. 

 

Tomorrow, they will move heaven and hell and everything in between to save the day. 

 

But tonight, they’ll rest.


End file.
